Standing on Broken Shoulders
by TheKittenLeftForDead
Summary: She was a coward, and was this not the perfect task for a coward? Running, hiding, lying...yes Hermione was sure she would be adept indeed.
1. Unexpected Ally

**Disclaimer: The entire Harry Potter universe, characters and everything belong to J.K. Rowling.**

**This is an AU. There is a slight variation of the 7th book (namely, Hermione's parents being dead) but everything is pretty much the same until the end.**

**Enjoy**

* * *

Hermione had been dreading this for days. She cowered in the abandoned potions lab, laden with charms and protections against…against them. She starved, she thirsted, she ignored the screams. The horror. There was no way out of the castle, of course, no escape for her to find. This would be where she would die, and she knew it.

How could they have _known_ about the ninth horcrux? Who could possibly...who would every want to split their soul so many ways? Of course they should have guessed, Voldemort would stop at nothing to live forever. Their exuberance at his supposed death came to a halt when they saw him rise again. He had taken precautions this time, there would be no escaping to Albania, no making of a new body.

He had laughed, and aimed the killing curse at Harry. Harry did not survive a third time.

When Harry had fallen, the chaos had truly been unleashed. The Light scrambled every which way. Some continued to fight, some tried to save their own skins. Most did not know what to do. They stood around, shocked, scared, not raising their wands to protect themselves. Those people perished quickly, of course, and added to the already large body count.

Hermione had tried to fight. Hermione had failed. And those red eyes had locked onto hers as she fled the scene. Harry was dead, Ron was missing, Tonks had been blown to pieces, Remus was headless, Ginny was broken beneath collapsed stone…and so many more.  
They had lost.

At first, the dark, little dungeon had seemed a refuge. It was free from death eaters and the looks of betrayal she surely deserved. Now though, she realized it was simply a prison, or purgatory. It only prolonged the inevitable.

She huddled herself in that classroom, clutching her robes around her shaking shoulders. She both longed for and dreaded it: Death. It must be better than living like this, in fear, in regret, in guilt, in misery.

When the inevitable finally came, it was in the form of Draco Malfoy, white hair and all. He was death in an albino costume. She was sitting, leaning her back against the desk.

"Granger." he whispered, looking….relieved? "Finally."

* * *

"Go ahead, Malfoy." murmured Hermione "Kill me."

She felt so weak…..what kind of fight could she put up? Everyone she had ever loved or cared for was dead and gone. Only her enemies lived. It was her time now.

"No Granger, you don't understand-"

"Come off it Malfoy, stop playing games!" her voice was icy, but inside she only wanted to crumble to dust. Couldn't he just kill her already? Did he have to draw it out? Would he torture her? Fine, she'd already been tortured. She could take it, knowing there was a blissful oblivion, an end to it all. That would make her strong. Malfoy did not, however, raise he wand at her. Not that that would have mattered much anyway as Hermione's own wand hung limply in her hand.

"Please Granger, just listen,"

Hermione shrugged weakly. She could not very well stop Malfoy from insulting her before her killed her. From his robe pocket, Draco pulled out a small black book. When he walked towards her, Hermione wanted to flinch and push herself away form him. She did not. She considered herself a coward, but she would not run from death. Not anymore. Her legs were shaking too much to stand up, so she sat, back completely straight against the desk.

Professor Snape had one once lectured from this desk, as had Slughorn. It was almost funny that she should find herself about to die in the very place Tom Riddle had first heard the hints about immortality, Hermione mused.

"Granger, I beg you," Malfoy was saying as he approached. "Just read the cover."

He held the book out to her, but Hermione did not raise her shaking fingers. Was it cursed? Would it poison her when she touched it? Burn her? Explode? When she didn't take the proffered item, Draco laid it next to her, in her line of sight. Hermione briefly glanced at it, and then glanced back.  
_Potion and Spells for the Purpose of the Practical Passing Through of Time_  
There was no author.

"Potion for what?" Hermione murmured, mostly to herself.

"Time." Draco answered. "The book deals with time travel."

"I don't understand." Hermione said, truly meaning it for the first time in her life. She stared at the book, refusing to touch it. Draco kneeled down beside her. Hermione turned away from him, not daring to meet his eyes, to see his triumph at how lowly the mud-blood had fallen.

"He killed my parents, Granger. Right in front of me"

The pain in Malfoy's voice….it was so familiar. Slowly, Hermione faced him. And oh yes, it was there in his eyes too. She recognized the pain she had seen on her own face upon coming home at the end of her sixth year to two broken bodies.

"My mother screamed for hours before he finally ended it. And you know why he did it?" Draco asked her, his voice sounding very distant. Hermione shook her head.

"To make a point, a damned point of putting him before family, before everything." Draco's already pale knuckles turned a few shades lighter."He has to fall Granger and this is the only thing that will do it." he gestured to the book.

"Time travel?" Hermione could hear the doubt in her own voice.

"We haven't got any advantages over him. And your _Golden Trio_ was always two steps behind. If I can go back far enough, with my knowledge of how everything pans out, then maybe we can catch him off his guard."

"But that's impossible, how do you even propose to-" Hermione began to protest.

"Improbable, maybe." Draco admitted, a slight smirk on his face "But not impossible. Not with the book. It's the only one of its kind in existence. I've been looking for it for days."

"How did you even _know_ to look for it?"

"A reference here, a reference there. I was searching for any way to take old snake face down. This book seemed like the best bet. I've been stering clear of him of course, to avoid his Legilimency. And then I had to find you…"

For the first time, he took a close look at Hermione. "You haven't eaten anything for a weak I should think. Only your magic is sustaining you now." he stood up and strode toward the door. "I'll get you some food."

"But…why?" croaked Hermione. _Why haven't you killed me yet? Why feed me? Why look for me?_

Draco stopped and looked back over his shoulder. "I'm rubbish at potions Granger. Snape never bothered to make sure I actually knew anything beyond the basics. And someone needs to brew that potion." Then he was gone, out the door.

Not trusting Draco, or herself, or life, or fate, or anything in general, Hermione inched over to the little black book. She picked it up ever so carefully and turned to page one.

_************LeftForDead************_

As far as Hermione could tell, the food that Draco had brought her was not poison. In fact, it tasted rather good. Voldemort had at least kept on the poor house elves, it would appear. As she munched, she looked through the book.

"This is all one potion. Yet, with this one potion, there are hundreds of possibilities. You can go forward in time, or go back just to witness events, like the muggle cinema. Or you can change the past. The only changing factor is the spell." she said. Draco nodded, though she doubted he knew what a muggle cinema was.

"We're in the perfect place for potion brewing, don't you think?" With that he got up to retrieve a cauldron from the store room and magically put a fire under it on the teacher's desk.

"It will only take about two months." Hermione added, doubtfully "Polyjuice potion doesn't take longer, but it requires more preparation, and I would imagine that it is far more complicated to change times than faces. Don't get me wrong, no first year could do it. There are very precise times to add the ingredients, and ways in which they should be prepared, and words to say over it. Yet...it just all seems too easy."

Draco frowned and stared into the empty cauldron "Time isn't real, Granger. It's not solid like appearances are. It is merely a largely accepted theory, and that is much easier to twist about than someone's face."

Hermione shook her head, but continued to read the book.

She didn't trust Draco, not one bit. But if he wouldn't kill her, and did not tell anyone else about where she was hiding, what more was there to do than to help him with this insane project? Oh, Hermione knew time travel was possible. How could she not, with her third year? Yet, it had limits, like anything else. Travel was possible within a day or so, not fifty years. The book offered little to no proof of actual time travel and despite what Draco said, Hermione was inclined to think this whole task a fool's errand.

* * *

All of the ingredients that they needed were stocked in Snape's storeroom. Most of the potion was really just a matter of sitting around and waiting for the right time to add the right ingredients. As the days passed on and Hermione found herself not in the clutches of Voldemort, she also began to believe that at least Draco hoped this would work. Perhaps, He really did want to get rid of his Master.

Gradually, they formed a loose plan of sorts. Draco would be the one to go back (the potion was only made for one). The plan had to be loose, as one very important drawback to the potion was its impossibility to make the year precise. Oh, it would send you back alright, but not exactly to when you wanted to go.

There would be at least a few years of difference, either forward or back. Hermione had decided to be safe and add more of the ingredients (lacefly wings, dragon scales, hippogriff feather) that would hopefully give Draco more time rather than less. He would be able to get rid of all of the horcruxes with time to spare.

If this worked at all, of course.

_************LeftForDead************_

Hermione was not entirely sure how Draco kept it all a secret from his -former- master. Voldemort was something she was reminded of each time Draco rolled up his sleeves to chop something, or placed a hand over his arm when he felt the call. This could all be one big trap, and Riddle was perfectly aware of where Draco was during his absences.

Though, as the days passed, Hermione decided that this was all to elaborate to be a trap when the dark lord could himself just burst in and kill her right then and there.

"What does he think you're doing?" Hermione asked one day as Draco set a plate of chicken in front of her. Draco frowned.

"I don't think he cares, really." Hermione looked at him, clearly asking for more of an explanation. "He's won, Granger. The Wizarding world has been conquered, in Europe at least. Now, the muggle one is on its way out. They're putting up a resistance, to be sure. But they're no match for him. Soon, they'll all be dead or enslaved. They don't really know what they're dealing with."

"It's only been a few weeks." Hermione said, aghast. Her face was as white as a sheet. She had not been thinking…had not wanted to know what was happening outside of this classroom.

"There are no obstacles in his path Granger. That's why he does not really care what I am up to. He does not think that anyone can take him down, or would even dare to try. And now with everyone this side of the Atlantic clambering to get on his good side….he does not really need me either."

_This side of the Altantic_

"The Americans? They're not trying to get on his good side? They're fighting back? Wizards or muggles?"

Draco was headed to the storeroom "Canada actually. The United States was infiltrated a while back. Voldemort made sure that they would too busy fighting amongst themselves to be ready for an attack. And wizards and muggles both, actually. They're working together."

"So there's hope." Hermione insisted. Draco stuck his head out of the storeroom "There's Canada, Granger, against all of Europe, South America, Most of Asia, more than half of Africa, and soon all of the United States, right on their border. There's not any resistance in those places either, at least nothing that counts, nothing that won't be overwhelmed soon.

"Australia?" Hermione asked weakly, feeling as though all the breath had been knocked out of her.

"It's dark." Draco's voice carried "They're in the midst of a final battle of their own, and it looks like the Death Eaters are winning."

Hermione clenched her fists "It's hardly been a month!"

Ingredients in his hands, Draco came back to where she was standing, next to Snape's old desk. He plopped them down. "Prejudice is something that spreads like wildfire. I should know better than anyone. It clings to the coattails of fear. And right now, there's a lot of fear in the world. If Potter or Dumbledore were still alive, there might be something to slow it down. Instead….there's just us."

Hermione stared down into the cauldron set atop the desk. Faced with the end of the world, she decided to push away her doubts over the possibility of this potion's success.

"Just us huh? Well. Old snake face shouldn't be so confident then." She said it low….not intending for Draco to hear. The smirk she saw out of the corner of her eye told her he had probably heard anyway.

_************LeftForDead************_

And so, the two months went by, if not quickly, then at least busily, what with them both checking over their shoulders every few moments and chopping up a storm. Hermione asked no more of the outside world. Instead, she threw herself into this task she had agreed to complete.

The day Draco was meant to begin his journey, something was not right. He was late. Draco was never late. As she waited for the worst, Hermione heard a bang. She jumped about ten feet in the air. The door to the potions lab creaked open.

"Granger." Draco's voice rasped. He collapsed into the room.

"Malfoy." Hermione cried, quietly. She did not want to attract attention from whomever had surely followed him. She ran over to him. His leg jutted out at an awkward angle. The more Hermione's eyes rove up his body, the worse it got. A gash ran from his pelvis to his collar bone, open, gaping, bleeding. His right arm looked almost sawed off, and his face red and blistery.

"The States fell, Australia fell. I was being foolish. It slipped. He read my mind." Draco was muttering. He seemed to realize she was finally there. "Granger, is it ready?" he asked weakly, not looking directly at her, as if his eyes could not remain still.

"I-yes, it is, but let me heal you first. You can't-"

"I won't. Granger, you go in my place. Don't waste time healing me. Just go. They're coming." He gripped her arm with his good hand.

"No. Malfoy, we agreed-"

"I lied. I never intended to go. You're the smart one, the c-clever one. You will succeed."

"Malfoy, you're delirious…"

"I wish. No I am painfully aware of what is going on. Potter saved my life, you know. And I betrayed him. I went over to snake face. And for what?"  
Draco paused as he coughed up blood, heaving and hacking. When he recovered himself, he continued "Helping you save the world is the least I could do."

His gaze finally focused on her and his grip strengthened. "Go save the world, Granger." Footsteps echoed down the hall. Draco released her. "Now!"

Angry hot tears burned her eyes. Maybe they were there because she had been lied to, or because she had not being given a choice, maybe even because of her former enemy's death (though she and Draco had never been close, never having really liked one another, not even as they conspired together).

Hermione ran to where the cauldron lay on the desk. she conjured a laddle and a glass. There was exactly a cup full. She drank it down, biting back a scream as a searing pain raced down her insides. She saw the death eaters break through the door, trampling Draco... saw the green light heading her way.

"Ad mutandum!" she yelled.

Then there was only darkness.

* * *

**Author's note: Yes? No? ****OH NO not another Tom Riddle/Hermione story!?**


	2. Too Many Dragon Scales

**Disclaimer: The entire Harry Potter universe belongs to JK Rowling**

**"If I have seen further it is by standing on ye shoulders of Giants"**

**- Isaac Newton in a letter to Robert Hooke**

* * *

_She is falling, falling far and falling fast. They slip by her, the tendrils and hooks, the whirls and loops...of time. She tries to get a grip on something, on anything...it all escapes through the gaps between her fingers. Something is behind her...coming after her._

_She lands with a jolt on her feet. __She is running on nothing but air and she cannot run fast enough. It chases her...it follows her. With claws, it grabs at her hair, it scratches her skin, it reaches for her throat..._

_She screams._

When Hermione opened her eyes, she gasped. In the darkness, she could see the outline of a face in front of her own.

"Something is not right." said a male voice, sounding as if he was observing her "You, are not right."

Two firm hands grasped her arms and pulled her to her feet. "Lumos," Hermione whispered, not at all liking the feeling of vulnerability the darkness gave her.

In the wandlight Hermione could see that he had long, lanky hair and a wild look about him. His jaw was square and his large nose seemed to fit his face well. He wore no clothes. In normal circumstances, she would look away for modesty's sake.

These, however, were not normal circumstances.

As her gaze traveled down his exposed flesh, she realized he was beautiful. Or at least his skin was. His face and chest were etched with scenes of melting snow, of blooming flowers, of little animals basking in the sun, of new life. It was a mural of spring being born from winter. Traveling down further, she saw that his upper body ended in an expanse of brown chocolate fur and legs that ended in...hooves. Hermione comprehended that he was not simply a man. He was a centaur.

He looked her up and down as she did him, but with more curiosity than outright surprise. "Your aura, it shimmers, it gleams. It swims into chaos and infinity."

Thoughtfully, the centaur rubbed his chin. He smiled lightly "I see. You are a traveler. You come a long way from home, and not alone." Not alone? Of course she had come alone. The centaur's next words made her forget that comment, however.

"And you come with a mission."

Hermione blinked. "I-well…yes you're right."

"What sort of mission, though? A mission to change the past? To rewrite that which has been set in stone?" he went on as if she had not spoken. "Are you so brave, to play with fire?"

A vague look of anger crossed his features for a brief moment and then disappeared. "No matter. What is done now has already been done, will be done. Everything has already been set in motion."

He offered her a hand "Come traveler. I can see it is my duty to bring you to your next destination."

Hermione took the hand, feeling amazed as she used it for assistance in getting onto the centaur's back. It was a great honor to be allowed a ride such as this. She was grateful as well, for it did not feel as though she had much energy to apparate anywhere.

Dazed and confused, mission momentarily forgotten, it took Hermione a few minutes to ask a rather important question. Destination had been about as easy to specify in the potion as time.

"Please tell me, where are we?"

"What you may know as the forbidden forest."

She breathed a sigh of relief. That part, the potion had gotten right, at least. Okay, now she just had to get to the castle and find Dumbledore.  
Except…

"And the year?"

"Some may say 1942, but that is a foolish statement. The world is much older than that."

After he said "1942", Hermione had stopped listening. She froze, trying to recall exactly how many dragon scales she had put into the potion. Too many, apparently. A weak cry of astonishment escaped her lips. Merlin, over five decades! She nearly bit her tongue trying to stop herself from screaming. Draco had wanted her to brew the potion because she was supposed to be adept! What was this? What had gone wrong? Voldemort wouldn't even have any horcruxes yet! He'd be….

Hermione did the math. Tom Riddle would be fifteen, in his fifth or fourth year in Hogwarts. Hogwarts. That was where she was heading right now.

"And the month? The day?" She heard herself ask, a slight tremor in her voice.

"The 21st of August. Traveler, I see this is not where you intended to go, is it?"

"Where? Yes. When? Not at all." Hermione said. At least, the young Tom Riddle would not be there. The centaur went at a steady pace, which gave her time to form a story, of sorts.

Cowards can be very good liars when they have to be.

_************LeftForDead************_

Gradually, the trees thinned. Hermione found herself on the familiar outskirts of the forbidden forest. In the corner of her eye was Hagrid's hut. It would not be his hut now. Hagrid would be a student, for at least another year.  
The Centaur kneeled to let her down.

"Thank you." She said "I know what an honor you have bestowed upon me."

He inclined his head.

"May I ask you a question?" Hermione took his silence for permission. "Do you see the future?" She had never put much stock in predictions until then (professor Trelawney's). She had even been largely skeptical over Harry's prophecy. Was it really the _prophecy_ that drove him and decided his fate, or Harry's (and Dumbledore's) own belief in it? The centaur's words to her had been to eerie for her to ignore them, however.

He cocked his head to the side "I can see many futures."

"Do you see one in which I succeed in my mission?"

"I can see many futures." The centaur repeated "Inevitably evil will rise, and inevitably it will fall. You may succeed, or you may not. That changes nothing. Such is the way it goes." He turned away and began a gallop to the forest.

"Thank you." she said quietly to the space he had been.

* * *

Hermione neared the castle as the sun was rising. She had to stop a few times to catch her breath, not having entirely gotten over her injuries from the final battle in the last two months. It was not as if Draco could take her to a hospital wing, or that there was any wing to take her to anyway. She had a slight limp and her vision began to swim. She hoped that perhaps she could find a private practice in this decade, someplace that wouldn't spread about rumors of the girl with war wounds.

While she was sitting down on the grass, shivering even in the August heat, she bothered to wonder for the first time if anyone actually occupied the castle in the summer. At that moment, a figure came out of the castle. It began to approach her. Hermione smiled in recognition, and then found herself frowning. She had not seen Dumbledore die, but she had been to his funeral…she had heard his phoenix's cry.

This Dumbledore would not recognize her. So she banished the nostalgia and memory of his funeral from her mind as she concentrated on her story. As much as she wished to confide in her old professor, telling Dumbledore the truth did not make sense anymore.

In this decade, as oppose to the later ones she had been planning for, he knew no Hermione Granger, there were no Horcruxes, and no Harry Potter. It would all be too much to explain. There would be too much she could not prove.

Anyway, she knew perfectly well he was busy trying to stop a different Dark Lord from taking over the world. It was best not to involve him in this mess.

As Dumbledore approached Hermione, she noticed that his face did not have as many wrinkles, though there were plenty of worry lines. They became apparent as he looked down at her.

"This is quite an unexpected surprise. Are you hurt dear girl?" the words were soft, but Hermione noted the hard edge of suspicion behind them.  
Hermione nodded. Gently, as Dumbledore was not in the habit of hurting any children, even ones he was not sure of, he helped her to her feet.

"Come then, we'll go to the hospital wing and you can explain to me how you managed to get through all of those wards."

************_LeftForDead************_

After assuring Dumbledore that her injuries were not serious enough to require a visit to the hospital wing and that she would indeed see a doctor soon, Hermione had to answer his question.

Having been thought up on the spot upon the back of a centaur, she hoped that her answer would be sufficiently innocent enough.

"I did not apparate. I walked, sir."

Wizards are so lazy, none would choose the long way to Hogwarts. Enough Wizards traveling though the Scottish countryside would be noticed by someone. Not one. One was harmless. As it was, the wards judged intent of the traveler as well as distance from the castle. It was rather believable. Except…

"Through the forbidden forest?" Obviously, he had seen her exit. Well, that helped her in other ways.

"I had help sir. I read in _Hogwarts: A History_ a while ago that there are some magical creatures who help those with pure intentions navigate the forest." She knew of instances too, such as when Harry got lost his first year during detention with Hagrid and had that run-in with Voldemort. There was also the time in second year, when he and Ron were almost eaten by Aragog's family. That flying car could be considered a magical creature, especially once it had entered into the forest's fold.

Dolores Umbridge's fate in fifth year was an example of someone _without_ pure intentions.

"Why not write for an apparation pass? Or come by floo?"

"Too risky sir, and it would have taken too long." She allowed a tremble to enter into her voice.

"It is Professor Dumbledore, please. Do explain your situation in more detail. I do not mean to pry, but the times call for a certain amount of caution….and suspicion." Dumbledore said, as they entered the castle. The last she had seen of the Great Hall, of its doorway, it had all been rubble. Everything was pristine, as perfect as her first night here when she was eleven. It was not sadness she felt now, but astonishment. and she could not afford to feel that now. She tried her best not to look at her surroundings and forced her gaze to stay on Dumbledore.

She paused for effect, and to collect herself. In her experience, hiding something from Dumbledore was not easy. Then again, he was younger here. It might not be so hard. "I was born in England. My dad is an entrepreneur, so we moved around a lot. The last few years, we have been in Italy. As you may know, Hitler and Grindewald both have been….busy there."

Hermione screwed up her face as much as possible, trying to look sad and troubled. It was harder than she would have thought. Her war was already over, all she could feel about it at the moment was loss and bitter resentment.

"My parents got on the wrong side of Grindelwald's followers there. I cannot say that they were particularly popular with the fascist government there either. They wanted to keep me safe, so they sent me on a boat to Scotland while they ran off to France. We couldn't risk floo or apparation. There are easy ways to track that. But walking? Muggle travel? Grindelwald's followers would never even think of that. I hoped Hogwarts would have a place for me, so I've been journeying through the countryside for a few weeks."

In her little bag, Hermione had the camping equipment in her enchanted bag to prove her story, if he questioned it. Instead, the younger Dumbledore offered Hermione a pat on her shoulder. "Yes. These are dark times we live in."

Hermione knew that that pat had a trace of guilt. Dumbledore now felt partially responsible for the break up of her family. It was something Hermione could use to her advantage to avoid suspicion with Dumbledore. She knew she should have felt bad over manipulating the man, but this was necessary. Anyway, it would save him from much more future guilt.

"Hogwarts has a place for all magical children in need. Worry not, you are welcome in these halls. I am sure that the headmaster will be happy to meet you now."

Belatedly, Hermione realized they had reached the two gargoyles.

"Gold crown." Dumbledore said to them. Up the familiar spiral staircase Hermione went.

************_LeftForDead************_

Dippet listened solemnly as Hermione explained her situation.

"Tell me, what magical education have you had up until this point, Ms. Evans?" It may have made sense to keep her last name, but Hermione could not be Hermione Granger here. Hermione Granger's parents were dentists. Her best friends were Harry Potter and Ron Weasley. She excelled in school. She wanted to work in the ministry when she graduated. Hermione Granger had seen war, death…..Hermione Granger had maimed and killed.

No, she could not afford to be a Granger any longer. She hoped Harry wouldn't mind a coward adopting his mother's maiden name. It was all she could think of on the spot.

"I always had a tutor in each country, and the tutor had textbooks." Hermione shrugged "I really do not know where I would place in a normal institution."

"And about how old are you?" he inquired.

"Um-"

"About fifteen?" Clearly, she had taken too long with her response as Dippet filled in for her. Actually Hermione was seventeen, but the last few months of malnutrition had made her look younger.

"Yes sir."

"Right, that would place you in 5th year. We just need to test you in some practical applications. I am sure you will do fine."

Hermione could have bitten off her tongue as she held back an alteration to her previous answer. Riddle would be in that year. How odd would it be to say:_ No, I'm really 16?_

She decided, after a moment had passed that it would be too strange.

_************LeftForDead************_

Dumbledore tested her in Transfiguration. The test was not difficult, not after all of the transfiguration she had had to do with on the run. Not to mention, the extra two years of transfiguration she had over the average entering fifth year. She turned a cup into an owl, then a pen into a story book and finally a cat into a rock. It was all very temporary and simple. She did not mess up, not once. Dumbledore looked at her, most impressed and pleased. Hermione had the feeling that she had been _supposed_ to mess up and that this test was actually too complicated for an entering fifth year.

Professor Slughorn asked her to brew a Dreamless Sleep potion, and then a Girding potion. For all that she had missed the mark on the Time Potion, those two were impeccable. She could practically see Slughorn's wheels churning in his head and he seemed about to demand her presence at the Slug Club right then and there. Thankfully, he controlled himself.

Professor Merrythought blasted hex after hex at Hermione. Each one she blocked with a different protective charm. She shot back a knee reversal hex, and several others. She did not win. She could have won, but Hermione decided that winning against a Defense Against the Dark Arts professor would have been too suspicious.

The staff had not bothered to test her in charms or history (though that was understandable. Hermione found History to be a largely ignored subject. Afterall, they allowed a _ghost_ to teach it), or in any non-core subjects. She frowned. Perhaps she had done too well. Attracting attention was not what she had been aiming for She had simply wanted to do well. Hermione decided that might have to change her habits.

"Wonderful, wonderful." Dippet muttered, going over her scores. He walked around to his desk to a shelf behind her. "Now, time to be sorted. Do you know about this process?"

Hermione nodded "Yes. Professor Dumbledore explained it to me." He had, but of course that was not really why she knew it.

"Good luck." The headmaster placed the hat over her head. It did not quite go over Hermione's eyes, as it had when she was eleven. Otherwise it was the same old (or rather, younger) hat as she soon heard the familiar voice in her head.

_I see that I have done this already...or that will do it._

_Yes, you will. I was a Gryffiindor as you can tell. This time willy you just place me anywhere but Slytherin?_

_Why? Oh I can see that when you were young, it would not have been the place for you. Now? You have ambition girl, great ambition. To save the world._

_Not Slytherin. That goes against…the plan._

_What plan? All I can see is stories, half truths and whole lies. There are no plans._

_Slytherin is not the place for me. I thought you took choice into account. _Hermione pointed out, remembering Harry's story.

_Oh very well, stubborn girl. Take my advice then. You are surely aware that I have seen into the deepest part of the mind of each magical that child I have sorted since sorting began at this school._

_So it would seem._

_And that I recall each one._

_I suppose._

_As you proceed on your journey, consider that I have never sorted any who were pure evil. Oh some were dark. Some were mean. Some were cruel. Yet none could be called pure evil, not by me._

_Even five years is a lot of time for someone to change, hat._

_Five years is merely a blink of an eye._

_For you._

The hat did not reply. Instead, it shouted "Ravenclaw!"

************_LeftForDead************_

Hermione stepped out of the fireplace and dusted off her muggle jeans, ripped and crumpled as they were. She limped out the door of the leaky Cauldron. All of those tests had zapped her already depleted energy. She shivered slightly as she had outside the castle.

She thought vaguely of her lie to Dippet, having said she was going to stay at the Leaky Cauldron for the time being. A room for ten days would probably cost about 7 galleons. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner would be served. In her money bag, there was an embarrassingly large amount of gold and silver, even after paying the Hogwarts tuition. Most of it had been Harry's. Now, Hermione thought sadly, it had become hers.

It would be all too easy to get a room upstairs of a good enough size. There would be a wardrobe which would be useless until she had some proper 1940's style clothing to wear (As it was, the wizards she encountered had though little of her jeans and t-shirt, but they had not been tipped off. What did they know of muggles?). There would be a nice soft bed, maybe even a little desk and chair.

Hermione didn't want that. How could she sleep well in such a structure when she had been living in a tent for nine months, and then a dungeon for two? And why did she deserve a nice bed, room, and meals anyway? She could do well enough in the tent.

With a last little bit of strength, Hermione apparated to somewhere along the English countryside, specifics were not exactly important. She opened her little bag, pointed her wand inside and said "Accio, tent."

After waving her wand to set it up, she entered it. Almost, it smelled like home. She went toward her usual cot, trying to ignore the empty ones. On the way there, she passed the kitchen, where she certainly did not ever make tea and laugh over some stupid boy with Ginny. And there were the chairs, where the twins never forced down their breakfasts in their hurry to reach the game. She saw the fireplace, where she had absolutely no memories of warming her feet by the fire with Harry and Ron.

Hermione felt a chill again as she sat on her cot. She cocked her head to the side. Were those whispers she heard? Forcefully, Hermione shook her head and did her best to forget those thoughts. She made sure the flaps were closed, dropped her bag, and gratefully fell sideways onto the cot, completely and utterly exhausted.

_You come a long way from home….and not alone _

She remembered the vague words right before sleep came.

* * *

_They're so happy, so happy! She can feel her heart bursting. She turns to Ron, stands up on her toes and kisses him for the second time that night. It is exhilarating. Everyone is kissing someone. Everyone is shouting, crying. It is all so overwhelming. They cannot believe it._

_And then the screaming starts. Behind Harry, a figure climbs to his feet. The followers come back as their master cackles his triumph._  
_Harry isn't fast enough….he falls._  
_Hermione screams until her throat is raw._

_ She runs. Something is following...is catching up...is grabbing..._

When the sun broke through the window of the tent, Hermione immediately awoke. Caught up in the remnants of her dream, the warmth on her face confused her. She had had months of waking up in cold before-dawn mornings. She was more used to the stars than the sun. Then there was those two dark months in the dungeon….waking up was not really an issue then, as she never slept.

Her confusion led to fear and she reached for her wand, hidden underneath her bed. As her memories rushed back to her, she let out a sigh of relief. She was safe. Then she felt wracked with guilt. She did not deserve to be safe, to feel the sun on her skin. She had fled, she had seen those red eyes and run for the hills.

Molly Weasly, childless, husbandless, had fought on in spit of it all. Hermione could not run fast enough.

Coward. That is all she was and cowards did not deserve to live.

Hermione curled up into a ball on her bed and clenched her jaw. What was the point of it all? She was trying to rewrite history. The centaur had been right. Hermione was playing with fire and should would be burned.

_************LeftForDead************_

It was a long while before Hermione could force herself to get up and leave the tent.

She ate breakfast at a little café in Diagon Alley and read over her list of necessary school supplies. She supposed she would have to get fitted for her school robes first as she would need to pick them up later. She would also need muggle clothing of this time and era. Then there were books to be bought, parchment, quills, and a trunk.

This was going to be a busy week.

There was no Madam Malkin's in this decade, but there was a kindly old magical tailor not unlike Olivander. His shop was a few stories down from where Malkin's had been. Mr. Taylor's Tailor Shop, the sign above it read. He smiled at her in a vague way as she entered and gestured for her to stand on a stool.

"Hogwarts robes?" he asked. Hermione nodded.

"Arms out." he instructed as enchanted tape began to measure her quickly and efficiently. Hermione looked around, eerily reminded of the shop that had yet come into existence. It had been destroyed, she supposed, along with every other muggleborn friendly shop in Diagon Alley. There were the mirrors, the stools and the floating needles. She had to remind herself that one tailor shop in the Wizarding world must look just like another, no matter the time period.

About twenty minutes later, school robes carefully stowed away in her bag, Hermione was in Gringotts. She exchanged her wizard money for some current muggle currency. Then she was headed back to the leaky cauldron and on to muggle London.

_************LeftForDead***********_

In a little department store, Hermione found herself exasperated. Skirts and blouses, skirts and blouses! There were no jeans to speak of, and no t-shirts either. And the shoes! Could they make less comfortable shoes?

Hermione let out a huff in frustration as she considered abandoning this store altogether. Unfortunately, her jeans, t-shirt, and trainers had already drawn quite a bit of unwanted attention. They would not work at Hogwarts, nor in the muggle world she was planning to spend some time in over the next week or so (yes, a small plan was forming in her head. Really, it was the beginning of one. She had not thought beyond doing something constructive over the next 10 days).  
No, for now the rest of her modern clothing had better stay safely tucked away in her enchanted bag, and off of her body.

The saleslady had heard her huff and was making a beeline for Hermione.

"What can I help you with, miss?" she glanced briefly at Hermione's clothing and her lips just slightly turned downwards.

"Trousers."

The saleslady narrowed her eyes at the request. "This is a ladies department store. And ladies do not wear trousers." Her words implied that perhaps Hermione was slightly less than a proper lady, and very unseemly. Hermione clenched her jaw, not used to admitting defeat, but she did not have that much of a choice. Transfigured clothes were too risky. The spell may wear out while she was not looking, in front of a muggle.

She supposed that she could conceal herself with a charm, but the thought of egg running down her back did not particularly appeal to her. The clothes would be useful in Hogwarts anyway for the slug club parties she would inevitably be invited to. The shoes would probably also have to be worn with the uniform.

"I guess I'll just have to wear skirts and blouses then." she waved vaguely at the racks in front of her "I'm a size six, and I like plain."

The saleslady nodded sharply as if she had just been given an order from a commanding officer. The next three hours were spent picking out a new wardrobe. The woman, Janice, insisted that she at least look at some of the clothes, and even try some on, though Hermione had little desire to do either. She had long ago lost any pleasure in clothes shopping.

The total amount came to not nearly as much as it would have been in her time, but Hermione was still grateful to have exchanged her money for some muggle money at Gringotts. She felt badly about confunding the woman over a matter of ration cards, but these were necessary enough to require the spell.

As Hermione left the store, she was already wearing one of her new outfits, horrible shoes and all. She ducked into an alley and used a spell to stuff her armfuls of clothes into her little bag. Then with careful concentration, Hermione apparated to her next destination.

The hat had been right of course, Hermione had no real plan. She was not quite over being thrust into the 1940s, when she had been expecting at most, the 1970s. Come to think of it, she had been expecting oblivion while Draco Malfoy of all people went off to save the world. Maybe then she wouldn't exist at all. In a way, she had been looking foward to the sweet ignorance of whatever happened to the people not involved in the actual act of time traveling themselves.

So Hermione was slowly getting over her shock and doing the only thing that she could think of doing. She did not actually know where the orphanage that the young Dark Lord resided was. So, she aimed for the center of London and started asking for directions. It was not that difficult despite Harry never bothering to name the place.

With so many children being shipped off to the countryside, there were not that many orphanages to search through, and only one matched Harry's description. As Hermione observed the institutions leading up to it, she could not help but tour this very alien London.

Perhaps it was because Hermione had been on the outskirts of muggle London before, but while at the department store, she had not noticed the difference between her own London and this one as much. She had been perfectly aware of the history of World War II, but it was an another thing entirely to witness it with her own eyes. First she noticed the bombed out buildings, which were jarring enough. To think, at any time an air raid siren could go off and Hermione would have to find bomb shelter.

She was used to danger of course, as used as anyone can ever be. London however, was a place she had considered relatively safe as the Wizarding World was plunged into darkness. Things made sense in muggle London while insanity overtook Hermione's second home with wizards.

Secondly, Hermione noted the lack of metal railings bordering parks and school yards, even some steps. She passed by a cemetery from which she could see some of the gravestones with large, squares around them where no grass was growing. Ah, they were needed for guns and ammunition, Hermione realized. The country was reusing the metal.

Then there were the allied soldiers (she noted, not many Americans, not yet. Had Pearl Harbor happened yet? She couldn't remember) and British soldiers on leave, all milling about. Some looked scared. Were those the ones about to be shipped off to the front? Some looked relieved. Were they the ones only just returning from death's door? Even some men in plain clothes, Hermione recognized as soldiers. The way they held themselves erect, that haunted look in their eyes, and that not so small amount of pride for having even a chance to defend their country.

Briefly, Hermione wondered if they recognized her as a soldier as well. But no, she hunched her shoulders. She walked slowly to hide her limp, there was no long, prideful stride. She looked down when people looked at her, when soldiers looked at her. Hermione did not believe herself to be like them, she could not even meet their eyes.

Surely, they would instead recognize her for the coward she was.

Seeing all of this destruction, a country clearly at war, and clearly afraid, seeing civilians looking up at the sky with slight trepidation whenever they heard a strange noise, Hermione could not believe that anyone dark lord or not, orphan or not, evil or not, would want to throw the entire world into another horrible war.

Yet, her knowledge went against her disbelief. Hitler had done it. Grindelwald was doing it. And Riddle would begin his own war by the late 70s, merely thirty or so years from now.

Eventually, she did reach that one right orphanage. From a nearby newsboy, she bought a paper and cast a variation of a two way mirror charm on it. Hermione sat down on a wooden bench from which she could see the place out of the corner of her eye. It bordered a railing free park. She put the paper in front of her face. This way, she could see the orphanage, but all anyone else could see would be her newspaper.

She watched the orphanage like a hawk, but her eyes did journey to the sidebars of the paper, the only parts she could read. One announced a parade for the American soldiers to be held in September. So Pearl Harbor had happened then.

Hermione glanced back at the orphanage. Truthfully, she had little idea of what Riddle looked like. However, no one other than a few workers from the red cross had gone in or out of that building. None of them looked like an evil little fifteen year old boy with a face like an angel and no heart to speak of. The hours passed on, and her legs began to fall asleep. The left leg that gave her her limp was to aching. As the sun set on her, Hermione had to admit defeat and head to an empty little alley to apparate back to her campsite. It was carefully concealed with charms and protections from prying eyes, both magical and muggle.

Back in her tent, Hermione sat heavily on her bed. A shiver went up her spine. She realized, now that she was not distracted by buying clothes or spying on a little Dark Lord, that it had again been unusually cold for a summer day. And the whispers….all the way out here in the middle of nowhere.

Was she going insane?

Hermione tried to banish the thoughts as she wrapped a blanket around her shoulders and stiffly pulled her leg up on the bed. She would really have to see someone about that in the next few days. Dumbledore might take her to the hospital wing when she returned to Hogwarts otherwise. It was hard for her to remember exactly what hex had been shot at her for that one. A degenerative one maybe? Her leg did seem to be getting worse.

She had managed to heal her open wounds, so at least there was no scar tissue to raise eyebrows. It was just the one leg and with all the walking she had done today she occasionally noticed her vision swimming again. Though, she was sure that was do more to her over exertion than anything else. It had not lasted for long, at least. If she smart about choosing it, a private practice would hopefully be prudent enough or busy enough not to question her too closely.

Hermione forgot about the whispers, the shivers, and the pain as she allowed herself to fall into a not so dreamless sleep.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Sorry, forgot to apologize in the last chapter about that bit of Latin at the end. I put down only what Google Translate gave me, which may or may not have been right. It meant something like: Go back to change. There could be many possible spells in that book. Go back to watch; Go forward to learn; Go across to hide; etc.

Also, I know that centaurs generally are not very fond of humans, but Firenze could not have been the first black sheep. Let's just imagine that the centaur is fascinated by her strange appearance in the forest, and sees that it is her fate to help her in her journey. The centaurs do have an ability for Divination. Additionally Hermione is very respectful towards him, and perhaps he recognizes that.

Finally, I apologize for any and all historical inaccuracies about London during World War II. I tried my best.


	3. Healer Umbridge

**Disclaimer : The whole Harry Potter Universe belongs to J.K. Rowling**

* * *

_She is sitting down to breakfast, stuffing her face with toast, eggs, muffins, pumpkin juice and coffee. Ron is spreading butter on several pieces of toast. Harry is feasting on a large bowl of oatmeal. Luna is staring dreamily down at her pancakes. Ginny has her hand around several hard boiled eggs. Neville is smiling through a mouth full of berries and waffle._

_Full and happy they are._

_And yet….does Ron not look a tad bit gaunt? Are those Harry's cheekbones she can see? Though Ginny is ravenously devouring her eggs, the flesh around her face is draining away. And Luna…she cannot even pick up a fork._

_They're wasting away around her. "Eat! Eat!" she cries to them, throwing food in every which direction._

_They eat. They do not get better. All at once it seems, they have wasted away to nothing but skeletons, skin and bone._

_Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him, full faced and grinning. He gives chase. She tries to run...but she is so weak..._

************_LeftForDead************_

She screamed as she came out of the dream. And that's all it had been...a dream.

It was not the sun, but Hermione's growling stomach that had awoken her that morning. She remembered then that the last meal she had eaten was almost twenty four hours ago. Draco had brought her food, of course, but it was never a lot. That would have drawn suspicion to him, and if Voldemort did not care what he was up to, he still had to worry over the other death eaters.

Hermione had been forced to grow used to limited meals and limited food in them while on the run and then in the Dungeon. Now there was nothing stopping her from stuffing her face. However, with her stiff, painful walk and occasionally swimming vision, she did not have much of an appetite. She knew though, that she had to keep up her energy and vowed to force herself to eat at least three meals that day.

By the time she arrived at Diagon Alley the dream was largely forgotten.

After a breakfast of oatmeal, a croissant, and juice at the same café as yesterday, she felt she had more energy. Her walk improved slightly. Still, she was too cold for an august day, but she did her best to disguise it with her wizard robes. Hermione headed to Gringotts.

She noted that it was a Sunday, but then goblins are not exactly known for taking days off. The bank was very busy, with goblins and wizards headed every which way. Hermione darted around the crowd and approached one of the many goblins behind the desk. Hodron (as his name plate read) frowned down at her.

"I'd like to open an account, please." If he was annoyed before, the goblin did not show it after that sentence. The hope of new gold forced a kind of grimace (that Hermione took for a smile) onto his face.

He pulled out some papers "Of course. We thank you for your business. Shall we begin?"

Hermione nodded. She had decided the day before that perhaps carrying all of her money in an enchanted bag was not the safest nor the smartest way to store it. At least in a bank it could grow with the goblin's investments, instead of just dwindle. Who knew how long she would be stuck in this decade? Even Harry's contribution of gold might run out.

So Hermione filled out the proper paper work. She used her new name, did the math for her birthday (she used a different year of birth, but her real age and birthday. Underage witches and wizards were not allowed to open vaults of their own) requested a moderately sized vault (for she would not be putting _all_ of her gold there) handed over the initial fee, and signed at the bottom.

Then she was given a key.

"Please, follow me, Ms. Evans." The goblin behind the desk requested as he pushed himself off of his chair. He personally led her to her through the door to narrowly lit tunnel and into the cart (which was too much like a roller-coaster for Hermione's taste) to her own vault labeled: 643, and gestured for her to open it with her new key.

The lock clicked, and inside her vault, Hermione went. It was a moderate size, just as she had requested about the same size as her old room at home. She pulled out her money bag and started removing handfuls of coins (galleons, knuts, sickles) to stack in neat little piles. By the time she was done, they filled a good quarter of the vault. Oh, she would run out eventually, but not in a very short time at all.

Outside, the goblin was waiting to take her back.

"To your expectations, miss?" he asked.

"Oh yes." Hermione said politely.

As they were barreling back up the passage way, she heard a cry of fury in the distance, down below. All at once, she felt sick, and gripped the cart for support. The dragon...she had forgotten that they used dragons to deter would be thieves. She had forgotten how they tortured and abused them into protecting _gold_. Her _gold_.

"Is something wrong?" the goblin asked as the cart made its way back to the surface. Hermione shook her head.

"I...I am just a little motion sick is all."

Hermione could not be righteous as she once was. With what she had done, how could she presume to be righteous at all? It required a certain amount of innocence and ignorance that she no longer possessed. She would have to honestly believe in a clear difference between right and wrong, black and white, light and dark. And she found...as she thought about the dragon, that she could not draw those lines any longer. Hermione could not even bring herself to try

Much different from the Hermione of even a year ago, she knew that every poor, mistreated creature could not be saved by her. She probably could not even save one. Not now. She didn't have the time….the energy to waste.

Hermione Granger had been righteous. Hermione Evans could not afford to be.

Even so, the dragon's cry felt like a kick in the ribs to her.

(_She looks across the late to the far bank, where the dragon is still drinking. "What'll happen to it, do you think? Will it be all right...?" - __Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, _548)

_************LeftForDead************_

Flourish and Bolts was apparently a rather old bookstore. She was thankful for the familiar shop after Gringotts (which was faimilar, but not in a good way). She stayed in there a lot longer than was necessary, but then she had never felt more at home than in a bookshop or a library. In addition to her school books, Hermione picked up a few books on theoretical magical extended time travel. There appeared to be no copies of _Potions and Spells_. She did not dare ask about it. Some may wonder if she was trying to attempt the impossible act!

Hermione vanished her wizard robes outside of the shop, exposing her newly bought muggle clothing. Goosebumps traveled up her legs and arms. It was the 1940s. She didn't show much in her green top and black skirt, but it was _summer_. Muggles did not wear cloaks or coats in the summer. To do so would attract unwanted attention. Her uncomfortable shoes tip tapping on the cobblestones, Hermione soon found herself in front of the leaky cauldron. From there, she apparated to an empty alley near the orphanage. Again, she bought a newspaper and kept a vigil on the bench.

She had only been there a few minutes when the doors opened and out marched two lines of children in order of size: one boy, one girl. Standing at the very back, looking almost gangly ( but really he was too stuffy to be gangly) was Tom Riddle. It was true, Hermione had never held a picture of him, or faced a phantom in his form, or saw him in someone else's memories. It was the air about him that told her of his identity: the arrogance, the way he carried himself, the disgust with which he looked down on the other children. It was almost comical when one took in what he was wearing: a tattered, worn out, suit that was a bit too small. Two women took count of the lines. There were probably about fifty children in all.

Hermione watched as they marched like an army down the block. They did not go far, only to the Catholic Church nearby. It made sense as the orphanage was named after a Saint Nicholas. Hermione stifled a crazy, almost desperate giggle. _Voldemort in Church?_

And that look in his eye! As if he was trying to burn a hole in his worn out shoes! (In fact, he may have. Though Hermione doubted that a young Dark Lord would ever let himself lose control so easily). She half expected the roof to cave in when he went inside.

It stayed intact.

Hermione walked around the orphanage while they were gone. She noticed the small play yard with the missing railings and came to the conclusion then, that Riddle did not leave the orphanage except for Sundays. It was then that he was forced to go to church. This was based on a few observations: all of the children were incredibly pale for the summer (probably because they were not allowed to go outside at all now, with no railings), most looked absolutely ecstatic to be going out into the open even if it was to church, and the two matrons looked very unhappy about it all.

So Tom Riddle's lack of appearance was not simply due to his detesting muggle London, but probably also to the matrons not wanting the children to run loose, especially with so many foreign soldiers milling about.

She figured that that was all she needed to learn about his habits, and decided not to spy on him _ever __day. _In her meantime that week Hermione concerned herself with other matters.

Hermione was not avoiding the issue at hand. Not at all.

* * *

**Monday**

When she woke up on Monday morning and felt like falling over, Hermione knew something had to be done. Carefully concealing her limp, Hermione walked into St. Mungos and asked a receptionist at the entrance for a list of some of the private practices in the area. They were all required to register with St. Mungo's just in case there was a medical emergency, the practices could be located more quickly. It took only a moment for the magic quill to write down.

The first, disguised in muggle London, was too empty in the waiting room. One strange patient would attract too much attention. The second, just outside London was closed on Mondays. Hermione discovered this only after wasting the energy to apparate the way there. The third, in Diagon Alley was so crowded that they could not take her.

So by the time Hermione got to the fourth, open and just crowded enough to overlook a strange girl with war wounds, she was exhausted. The horrible shoes did not help any. Her vision swam slightly as she sat down on a chair in the waiting room. And she was _so cold_. She pulled her robes tightly around her shoulders, thinking -almost- that she could see her breath.

There were the whispers….she blamed those on the other people waiting with her. She looked around the room, trying to concentrate on anything in order to distract her and clear her vision. It was not a small room, but not too large either, being probably about the size of a Hogwarts classroom. It was no where near the waiting room size of St. Mungo's. The walls were lined with plush seats. All of them were occupied by witches and wizards of varying ages.

The room was an ugly shade of pink and hung on the walls were…..plates with cats on them? Hermione rubbed her eyes, feeling a sense of deja vu. She opened her hand where the list was crumped and looked at the Healer's name, not just their location.

Umbridge.

She let out a slight shriek, that she muffled with her hands. She could leave. She should leave. Hermione tried to stand, and failed. Her vision was unfocused. Her leg nearly gave out on her. It must have been a degenerative curse, because it had never felt this awful. She sat back down and resigned herself to her fate. This was a large waiting room, with plenty of people. Surely…there was another practicing Healer, or several others. Her name would be called quickly, and she'd never have to see this Umbridge person.

It was about an hour until Hermione heard her name called.

She sat on the cot, waiting for the Healer's arrival. Perhaps…Umbridge had discovered her own way of time travel and decided to set up a medical practice in the early 1940s? It was ridiculous, but Hermione did not Healerop the idea entirely. There was a knock. She gripped the edges of her cot and half expected to see a plump toad faced, blond haired, cat loving Dolores Umbridge walk through the door.

The person who entered was indeed plump, but he was not a woman and he was very much bald. He had a scowl on his face.

"By the look of you, I'd say that you've seen the new décor my daughter-in-law oh so lovingly arranged."

Hermione blinked, finding only small resemblances between this man and the Umbridge she new.

"It was not your idea then?"

He made a disgusted sound in the back of his throat "Pink? Cats? No, I was going for more of a relaxed theme really. But the damned girl is determined to have her way. And she's got my son wrapped around her pretty little finger." he shook his head "I'm still convinced that baby isn't his. It doesn't look a thing like him."

"Boy or girl?" Hermione asked.

The Healer stopped his talking and looked at her, her chart in his hand. He had probably realized that he'd overstepped some line in the heat of his frustration.

"Healer Umbridge?" Hermione prompted.

"Girl. Dolores. Damned colicky, just like her mother."

Hermione breathed a small, unnoticeable sigh of relief. At least, this man was no cat plate lover and he did not seem overly fond of little Dolores either, baby or not. Healer Umbridge rubbed his eyes. "Very sorry about that, Ms…" he glanced at her chart "Evans. Yes, very sorry about that. My father always told me family strife is nobody's business. I was only talking to myself, hardly noticed you there. I apologize."

Hermione shrugged "That's alright. I think everyone needs to unload sometimes." The words did not apply to her of course. Hermione would be damned if she ever let herself slip like that in front of anyone.

Healer Umbridge gave her a kind smile "So, what seems to be the problem?"

Hermione had already practiced that answer before coming here "My vision swims when I over exert myself physically and magically, I have a limp in my left leg, and I find myself shivering a lot." An enchanted quill behind the Healer wrote this all down.

"Very clinical of you." The Healer observed as he ran his wand over her, doing a diagnostic. "No open wounds, no scaring. There are traces of dark magic I see…" he raised an eyebrow at her, perhaps a little suspicious? Perhaps crowded waiting room did not necessarily mean safety"The limp appears to be caused by the residue of a curse of some kind, perhaps one that eats away at muscle. The vision swimming might be from a concussion due to an internal slamming hex." He frowned "May I ask, Ms. Evans, what you have been up to? It is only for medical purposes, I assure you."

Hermione had rehearsed this part too. "I was in Italy with my parents. We got on the wrong side of Grindelwald." Hermione shrugged "I'm a lot luckier than a lot of other witches and wizards."

"The wounds are old." He pointed out

"I had to be sure no one was following me before I came out in the open." she looked at him, and put an accusing tone in her voice "You wizards here in England don't know what it is like for the rest of Europe right now. I had to come here in secret."

When the appropriate guilt and pity could be seen in his eyes, she added the pleading and fear "Please Healer Umbridge, you can't speak of this to anyone. They might find me." The Healer froze for a moment, but then patted her shoulder. It was not unlike what Dumbledore had done.

"Do not worry yourself, child. I will not breath a word." There was sincerity in his eyes. Oh no, Dolores Umbridge was certainly not the child of this man's son, not in spirit. "Now let me just check on those wounds again."

When he ran his wand over her for the second time, he frowned, and excused himself. When he came back minutes later, it was with a fat book, not unlike the medical textbooks Hermione had seen in her aunt's (who was a Doctor) home when she visited. The book was open to the center. He ran her diagnosis again and shook his head. Umbridge ran his finger down the page of the book. He flipped through some pages, frown still clearly on his face. There was obvious pity in his eyes as he looked back up. She knew, with a slight clench in her heart, that he had bad news for her.

"The concussion will be easy to heal. The shivering…" he shook his head "That could be due to any number of factors. You might be anemic. It might go away with the concussion. We'll have to wait on that. The limp however…I'm not sure of that. The curse remnant doesn't match any in our record. It could be that they've developed new curses in Italy, and we've yet to hear of them here in England. A cure to an ongoing curse should not take long to find. It is really a matter of knowing the name. That, is what I do not know, and what makes this more difficult than it has to be."

Because it hasn't been invented yet, Hermione knew. She had gone white as a sheet, imagining that she was going to lose her leg. "So, it will just continue to get worse?"

The Healer still frowned, but shook his head "No, no. It can be treated. The degenerating will be stopped, in fact. That is all easy enough. It is the healing that will be hard to do." he conjured a goblet, with a potion already inside "Here. This should stop the degenerating" She drank it. It was not so horrible. It only tasted like dirt.

"And this." He had another goblet in her hand "This should take care of the concussion."

He conjured something else: a bottle with a cork at the top "Take this continually, every day. It should ease the pain and stiffness." He had a rather brusque manner while giving her these medications, leaving her to believe that he thought it was not important for her to know what they were called, or even, exactly what they did. It annoyed her a bit, but he did not give her much time in gulps to ask.

The Healer looked down at her long, drawn face. Hermione felt like she had been punched. A limp…for who knew how long? The Healer patted her shoulder again. "It is quite a good potion. You may hardly notice the limp as long a you take it each day. The stiffness should be eased, and the pain with it. Before you run out, you must send me a letter asking for more."

Numbly, Hermione nodded.

"Just to be safe, it might be a good idea to get a cane." The Healer added. Before he left, he looked again at her "I will write to my colleagues on the continent. As soon as I discover what this curse is, I will have a cure for you. You will be in Hogwarts, I assume?"

Hermione managed a weak smile for him as she nodded and then remembered something "Healer Umbridge, What is the potion called? Maybe I can brew it myself."

The Healer let out a laugh "Oh do not worry about that. It is a complicated potion. A young girl like yourself does not have to exert herself so."

He closed the door before he could see the indignant look on her face. Healer Umbridge's beside manner left something to be desired, and his diselief in her abilities based on her gender, annoyed her more than she cares to admit. Still, he had not been so bad and she almost liked that straightforwardness that he had. Though he was clinical and in his diagnosis, he was nice enough for an Umbridge. And at least he was honest. He had also not made any promises about her future. How could he? It may be decades before that curse popped up again.

Hermione did, however, promise herself not to give in and ask for a refill on that potion. She would discover what it was on her own, and brew it herself.

_************LeftForDead************_

Hermione noted as she left the practice, that her head was not swimming. Having taken some of the other potion, which was light and bubbly (alsmost like champagne actually) her limp was better as well. She could almost walk normally. She made her usual rounds to the orphanage, but Riddle was shut in as always.

Hermione found that her pain free walk improved her appetite. She wanted to stop in muggle London, but most of the eateries were communal setups which required ration cards that Hermione did not have. Instead, she settled for stew in the Leaky Cauldron. She hoped it would heat her up. It did not, but she did not feel so weak when she left. She hoped that the Healer was right, and that the shivering would fade now.

The shivering became worse when she got to her tent. Hermione found that she could indeed see her own breath. In her cold, the stiffness in her leg returned. She started a fire in the little oven in the corner of the tent and curled up in a ball on her bed. She stared up at the dark ceiling. She thought of her limp, and added getting a cane to her to-do list. It might not be so bad. Hermione could hide it. Really, she should have been expecting this.

She had run where others sacrificed themselves. Did she really believe that she could escape unscathed? How foolish. Cowards are branded, and this….this was her brand. Some soldiers could hold their heads high even as they limped from place to place. Deserters? They could only look down.

As she drifted off into a restless night, staring up at the ceiling, in that strange in-between between sleeping and waking…Hermione thought for a brief moment that she could see a face staring back at her.

_It should be a finger_, she thought drowsily, _an accusing finger._

_The whispers...the whispers..._

_"Hermione? Hermione? Hermione?" Over and over, voices whispering her name. Cold breath tickles her ear._

_"Where are we Hermione?"  
_

_"What is happening, Hermione?"_

_"What is this place?"_

_"Tell them I love them, won't you?"_

_"Bury his body for me, please."_

_"Will you save her for me?"_

_"It's not safe Hermione."_

_"You're not safe Hermione."_

_"I am coming for you..."_

_"Run, Hermione!"_

_"He's coming!"_

Hermione awoke on Tuesday, and realized it was late into the afternoon. Her heart beat erratically, for reasons she could not remember. Though she had slept for more than half a day, she felt as though she had not caught a wink of shuteye. She got up, briefly, to start up another fire, and then burrowed herself back into bed. Her need for sleep at that moment exceeded her want for food, which was minimal.

She was very soon back to sleep, this time perfectly dreamless.

**Wednesday**

Two days later, filled with a muffin and a bit of the potion that the Healer had given her, Hermione set out to buy an owl. This was much easier and faster to do with the potion easing her stiffness, though Hermione would not be running any marathons any time soon.

This time she vowed she would not come back from the pet store with a cat. She really needed an owl now, what with the potion she would need to have refilled. Magical Pets Emporium was the first stop of her day. It was a relatively small shop cluttered from top to bottom with creatures of all shapes and sizes.

Wizards milled in and out, some with mice, some with owls, some with snakes, and some with animals Hermione would be hard pressed to name, but she was sure Hagrid would know. Hermione struggled to see over the cages, and hear over the squawking to find where they kept the owls.

A soft looking middle aged woman dressed from head to toe in purple (purple robes, purple shoes, purple necklace, purple hat) came to her aid.  
"What are you looking for my dear?" she asked, clasping her hands in front of her. Hermione could hear her well enough, but she did not think the same of her own voice.

"An owl!" Hermione nearly yelled.

"Ah yes! I thought so! Right this way!" and down the messy isles the woman went. At the back of the store, barely visible with the spare cages and bags of food surrounding it, there was an innocuous enough looking door. The woman muttered a spell and the door clicked open. "Come, come!" the woman commanded as she crossed the threshold. Obediently, Hermione followed. She was able to much more easily conceal her more slight limp thanks to the potion. Behind the door (probably enchanted to open to many places) was a large owlery, containing all kinds of the bird. Big small, white, black, brown, grey, some with big heads, some with little bodies. It was a lot to take in.

"What kind of bird are you looking for, dear?" the woman asked.

"Just one to get my post to and fro."

The woman nodded. She lead out a high pitched sqeaking noise and a small brown owl landed on her shoulder. "What about this guy here? He's about 6 months old, and has a nice long lifespan ahead of him. He's of a very reliable breed." The owl had a pinched look about him that Hermione found all to reminiscent of Narcissa Malfoy.

"Um, no thank you. He's uh…"

The owl flew off and the woman waved her hand "No no, if you don't like him at first, you won't like him at all. No need for excuses." she offered a kindly smile.

This made three in a row, Hermione realized. Three kindly, helpful, patient and sane individuals that Hermione had sought assistance from. The tailor, the Healer, and now this owlery woman. She wondered about the people like this in her time, well meaning and honest. Everything before the battle was a bit of a blur. She had never appreciated the kindness she had found in shopkeepers, but instead had taken it for granted.

That was until they all closed up shop and quaked in fear at the sound of a pin dropping. There were those that refused to serve her (Harry Potter's _muggleborn_ friend. The wrong sort will come around here if we start serving her), most out of fear than any prejudice.

Now she was very grateful for it indeed, but she did not hold any unrealistic thoughts that these people would _still_ be kind to her if it endangered them. That was alright though, she could hardly hold wanting to protect their livelihood against them.

A few more owls landed on the woman's shoulders. Something was not right about all of them. Some were too big, some too small. Some looked drowsy and lazy. Others were much too eager.

Eventually, the owl woman side in defeat "My dear, I do not think that an owl is what you're looking for. In fact, I do not think that what you're looking for is in this store at all."

"What?"

The woman shrugged "Some people just fail to bond to owls, you know. Some people are different." She was right of course. When Hermione thought of a pet, a companion, it had orange fur and a mushed in face. Crookshanks had been given away by Hermione, to her little cousin in Scotland after her parent's death and before she went off to join Harry and Ron.

A cat however, could not deliver mail. The woman looked at her and smiled, despite losing a sale "Some creature will turn up, I am sure." she assured Hermione.

************_LeftForDead************_

**Friday**

Compared to the Healer and the pet store, finding a trunk was easy.

To start off, she had a very small amount of belongings. In addition, she did not actually need a trunk. It was really just for show. She had her much more portable and larger little bag.

The trunk salesman seemed rather bored when she walked in. She looked up at the trunks stacked to the walls and scattered around the floor. Hermione spent very little time looking through the less magical models, and eventually settled on one just because its red and gold colors appealed to her.

She shrunk the trunk into a little box and dropped in into her bag.

As she left the shope, Hermione rubbed her arms. The shivering had not subsided and she was forced to acknowledge that it was not simply due to the concussion. Unlike the limp and the swimming vision, the shivering had not begun until she ended up in this time period. It had to be a side affect of some kind.

That night (as she had been doing on all the days she did not leave her campsite except to eat, and in all of her free time) Hermione scanned her new books on theoretical extended time travel. If it had not been so sudden, if she had had more time to prepare, maybe she would have thought to bring that little black book.

_And do what? Go forward? Back to that empty dungeon? That dead world? No, the book would not have helped very much at all._

She was not quite sure what she was looking for. An escape of a different sort, maybe? A way out of this mess that she had created for herself? No, as she found herself growing more frustrated at the writing, she realized her search was for the side affects. _Potions and Spells_ had not actually bothered listing any, which was why she had not immediately took the shivering for one.

She was also hearing those whispers at night and occasionally in the daytime. They were whispers in the sense that she could hear people whispering but could never discern what was being said. Or she just did not want to.

_Is insanity a side affect_, she wondered. It may explain the ease of which she was able to jump five decades. If the traveler was insane then no one would believe their dire warnings. They may not even have a chance to change anything huge.

There had to be consequences. Nothing, especially not time, came free.

Most of what the books said did not really help Hermione. Largely, they assumed that if time traveler could be made to go back further than a few days, it was only with a time-turner and some series of complicated spells. As such the theories dealt more with more with issues surrounding getting the time and date right, how many turns would be needed, and the size necessary to accommodate that kind of power.

Some of what was written though, was about the general theory of time travel based on how short range travel had affected the Universe.

_Consequences for the Universe would be minimal at most. As has been proved by the time turners of our age, this Universe has a great capacity to heal itself. The muggle question of killing one's own grandmother before their parent is born would not make itself a problem. It would be impossible to kill one's own ancestors. Either the woman would not actually be the traveler's grandmother in the first place (ie, the traveler was adopted or his parent was). In this case the traveler would have simply been given to a different family. _

_It may also be that the traveler would come back (if he had the ability) to find himself with a whole new set of ancestors (as these outcomes are both very similar outwardly, it would be difficult for the traveler to discern which had happened). The fact remains that the traveler would still exist, and the Universe would make it so. It would accommodate the changes and adjust itself to cover any holes left behind. This may mean others never existing, as in the case of the traveler's parent. The traveler will have to still exist, because the person of the past must be killed._

_The Universe is talented in covering up the tracks of travelers. As such, it may be prudent to wonder about how often time traveling is done without our knowledge. Of course, this is all theoretical….._

It went on for a bit on a tangent about theory verses law. Hermione scanned another few pages until she found what seemed like a continuation of the original thought.

_The only person still in existence who could possibly be affected would be the traveler himself. He would carry with him the memories from the previous timeline. What exactly would traveler experience because of them? Insanity, maybe? Memories, as we know them in the magical world can be very powerful. They can interact with and mold the world around them. _

_Memories of a different timeline would be clashing with the ones being created by people completely unaware of the intruder in their midst. In short term time travel, little to nothing happens to the traveler as only a small amount has changed. Comparatively, larger jumps_ _would have much wider ranging implications. The precise effects of this on the traveler cannot be known at this present time..._

The passage mostly made sense. She was cold whereas others were warm and Hermione had come from a cold, dead world. There was not really a sun in that place. Voldemort had snuffed it out as he had many other things. And she _remembered _it. The proverbial sun of the Light, Harry, she had watched as his life was ended. Hermione still _dreamed_ about it.

Memories were indeed powerful. They affected the magic around them and could mold it without the witch's or wizard's consent. A frightening memory could draw upon magic to recreate that which had done the frightening. It could become real. Boggarts were once such example of this.

A sweet, sad memory of love could draw a phantom of that lover. Hermione remembered the stone from the not so inaccurate tale of the Three Brothers, which also served for the power of memories of the dead. If desperate enough, it could allow you a few moments with an imprint of that person's soul.

Those were just memories of the past. What was the power of memories of the future? Of a future that might never come to pass? Hermione did not know if those would be any more powerful. All they seemed to be doing at the moment was lowering the temperature around her.  
And the whispers…..how much of her past had Hermione brought along?

Resolutely, Hermione shut her book for the night. She was not going to worry about ongoing affects of her memories clashing with the ones around her, not when they had yet to appear. She put a hand on her eyes, feeling a slight headache coming on. This was all so confusing. What she was reading was theoretical anyway. No one _knew_ the effects, or at least no one had never written any down.

She wondered about previous people who had tried out that potion, or if there had been any at all. Had they succeeded in their own quests? The author, whoever it was, must have tried it out at least once before publishing.

Despite believing this, Hermione felt that she had become a guinea pig for the Universe's experiment in messing with time.

* * *

**"If you choose to not deal with an issue, then you give up your right of control over the issue and it will select the path of least resistance." **

-Susan Del Gato

**Author's Note**: It might be a couple of more chapters before we actually get to Hogwarts, but don't worry. Hermione is not going to be just running errands the entire time. Some things need to happen before I can set her on the train.

Thanks to StalkingMalfoy for the reviews!


	4. The Raven

**Disclaimer: Everything in the Harry Potter universe belongs to J.K. Rowling**

"The worst guilt is to accept an unearned guilt."

-Ayn Rand

* * *

Two days before Hermione was set to leave on the Hogwart's express, she sat up on her cot, feeling stiff necked and tired. She first rubbed at her dry eyes. Yet another sleepless night she had spent tossing and turning, drifting off only to jump at the slightest sound. It was exhausting, but she supposed that it was better than the nightmares.

Next Hermione took the daily dose of the _still_ nameless potion her healer had given her. It was not a cure, but if she walked at a normal (if somewhat slow pace) it would be hard to tell she had trouble walking at all. As such she had put off the buying of the cane, though she knew she should probably get one soon.

Hermione had found that it was better to be safe than sorry. If she ran out of the potion at the absolutely wrong moment (like being surrounded by people with malicious intent) she would rather be running away faster (if painfully) with the help of a cane than stumbling around without one and perhaps falling flat on her face.

Hermione looked around her tent, feeling the now familiar itch that she had been in one place for much too long and should set up camp elsewhere. She suppressed it, knowing there was really no one after her, not then at least. Anyway, she would be packing up pretty soon.

And how would Hogwarts feel to her, she wondered. Like a stone prison maybe? The potions classroom certainly had not been a great source of happiness for her. It had been so long since Hermione had stayed in one place for any length of time without her _life_ depending on it. Hogwarts...it had once been home, but she could not imagine having a home anymore, not really.

When the potion had taken effect, Hermione got to her feet and conjured a kettle of water with the intent to make tea. She paused as she passed the cot that had once been Ron's. Something had caught her eye. Was it a trick of the light? Her imagination? No, it was very much real. Why had she not noticed it before? She had been too busy perhaps and too much distracted by her shivering and the whispers.

Hermione approached the cot cautiously, as if every movement she made might cause a gust of wind to blow it away. Tiny steps. Baby steps. One at a time. Right, left, right, left. When she was close enough, she reach out her hand and held her breath. she swallowed as her fingers touched it and she ran it between her thumb and forefinger. It was this red hair, standing out starkly on the white pillow that had caught her eye. Ron had been missing at the end, but now Hermione remembered Molly Weasley. There had been rage in her eyes as if she had nothing to lose….

_Bellatrix is already dead by her hand, so the once soft, safe, loving Molly Weasley goes after Dolohov next. When he is blown to pieces, Nott and Goyle soon follow._

_And so, one by one Molly Weasley destroys each of her children's killers, and that of her husband. She displays little emotion on her face beyond grave indifference. Only if you look into her eyes can you see the spiteful anger…the black hatred….and the shattered heart._

_Hermione is on the ground, writhing. A death eater holds her down with the cruciatus curse. She does not scream because there is no scream left in her, not after Harry dies._

_When Molly turns to the sound of Hermione's screaming, she is covered in ash, in blood that is not her own. There is no recognition in that face, only an acknowledgement that Hermione is _not_ a death eater. Molly's revenge is not over. When she kills the death eater torturing Hermione, it is not to save Hermione but simply to kill the death eater._

_When Hermione shakily rises to her feet, Molly is already gone._

___Some would cry and grieve when they lose a child. After losing them all, it seems Molly Weasley is hard pressed to shed a tear. But then, this is a war zone._

As she thought of that moment, Hermione remembered an awful muggle experiment she had once read about.

On a beach, a mother rabbit was tied down and sedated. She was being monitored through machines. Below that beach, in a submarine were her eight kits. One kit was killed, and the unconscious mother's adrenaline went up. The submarine went lower, another kit was killed, and the mother became more agitated. One by one, the same happened to all of her kits as the submarine sunk deeper. When the last was dead and the mother woke up, her vitals were completely off. She collapsed and died, perhaps from grief.

Yes. Ron had certainly died.

Tea forgotten, Hermione padded outside. She thought vaguely as she looked down at herself, that she should buy a nightgown or something. She could hardly go to sleep in her school robes or jeans at Hogwarts.

She walked quite a way into the forest before she found the type of spot she was looking for. It was a place mostly free of trees, leaves and twigs. There, hopefully no animal would want to go burying acorns and things. Hermione began to dig a little hole. She did not transfigure a shovel, or lift the dirt away with magic. This had to be done manually and by hand, just _because_.

Harry would understand, she knew, if he were here. He had buried Dobby by himself after all, and Ron was no less brave or loyal than Dobby. Hermione could not claim the same, and she had no idea how Ron would feel about a coward trying to put him to rest, but she was the only one left to do it. In a way, she supposed that it was selfish. Ron was not dead, he had not even been born. Was she really trying to put him to rest, or was she only comforting herself?

Hermione brushed the thought aside. When she was satisfied with the hole and her fingers were properly caked with dirt, she reached into her pocket for the single hair. She laid it inside and gently piled the dirt on top of it. There was no gravestone. She was not even sure where this place was. Nothing marked its importance, or differentiated it from other, similar clearings. There was no need for that though. She was the only person who would ever be visiting, the only one who knew he made the ultimate sacrifice in the fight against tyranny.

"Goodbye Ron." Hermione whispered as she patted the dirt pile. Nothing more needed to be said.

_************LeftForDead************_

Back in Diagon Alley, Hermione picked up the last of her materials for school. In a stationary store she restocked her supply of quills and parchment. She fully intended to play the part of conscientious note taking student, as if she had no other concern than to try her best. It would be an easy and familiar role to slip into, she almost looked forward to it.

She caught sight of other last minute Hogwarts shoppers bustling about. The first years ran around, looking excited and terribly frightened at the same time. Hermione noticed the lack of muggle born first years (whose looks of wonder and mingled disbelief she would have surely recognized) probably because due to their curiosity they had already bought their supplies weeks in advance.

From second years to seventh years, students were haphazardly grabbing at quills and parchments, their arms already loaded with books and other purchases. Parents shut their eyes tightly and wished they had nagged their children more about doing this sooner. The students bumped into each other, laughed, asked about the other's summer and so on. Hermione clenched her teeth, and kept her distance from such happenings. It brought back all too pleasant memories that she was not in the mood to think on.

At Flourish and Bolts, she looked again at the time travel books. There were not very many. It did not appear to be a very popular subject. She decided against buying any of the other books. They all more or less said the same thing as the ones she already had.

Hermione had been putting it off for a few days, but she decided that buying the cane had to be next. She did not suppose that the search would be easy (and maybe that is why she had put it off, in the hopes that she would not have enough time to complete it). Though it was not so unusual that injuries could not be cured by magic, even in Hermione's time (look at Mad Eye Moody) the permanent handicaps were few. There was not going to be any place even remotely resembling a useful medical supply store.

After standing in the middle of Diagon Alley for a few moments and mulling it over, Hermione came to the conclusion that a cane was wood and so were wands. She thought she would try Olivander's first.

It seemed that Mr. Olivander was a lot older than Hermione would have guessed, because an only slightly less grey, stooped, and wrinkled copy of his was in the shop when she entered. Hermione carefully concealed her wand beneath her robes, tucked into her skirt. He might have recognized it as one of his own and not simply one that she had purchased in another country. Olivander _was_ a master wandmaker after all.

"You are a bit big to be looking for a wand, I suppose." Mr. Olivander guessed as he raised a friendly eyebrow at her.

Hermione shook her head "I was wondering, being that you are a seller and maker of wands…which are made of wood and contain enchanted properties….I was wondering if you also sold canes."

He did not ask her to demonstrate her disability, for which she was grateful. He simply peered at her as if sizing her up. Whatever he saw, he must have liked.

"It may be that I have something for you." he said and started off to the back of the shop. Minutes later, he came back with three canes in his hands. They were odd (at least by muggle standards for canes) and yet beautiful. All were intricately carved, each with a different head for a handle.

The first was a growling lion. Down the sides of it were images of grasslands, slowly shifting and moving. She stared at those carvings for a moment. They revealed a sun and then a moon. Antelopes hopped across the long grasses. Hermione tried it out, curling her hand around the lion's upper jaw and dull teeth. she leaned her weight on the cane and thought she might topple over. Gingerly, she handed it back to Olivander and received a second cane in turn.

It had a snake for a handle. Winding down around the cane were carvings of winding scales. At the bottom, its tail rattled. Hermione gripped it around the snake's extended, hissing, tongue. This one supported her better, but it felt odd. It was as if it were crawling up her arm and squeezing her tight. She felt restricted by it.

The last had the head of a raven. It had carvings of trees, cornfields, the night moonlight, feathers falling and more. This one, when she gripped it around its beak…it felt right, warm…. not unlike her wand had felt when she first held it.

At her surprised smile, Olivander grinned as well.

"I thought so." he looked down at the other two canes. "The Raven differs from these two. It does not give strength, like the Lion, or agility, like the Snake. Rather, it draws upon that which is already there in order to, well..…give flight I suppose."

"What is in it? What is its core?" It was fascinating what magic could do at times when it interacted in just the right way with the caster.

Olivander smiled "A cane is not like a wand, not really. What is in it? That matters as much as what kind of ink is used to write the words in a book. Only the words are important in that book as only carvings are important on that cane. If you look at them closely, you will realize my meaning."

He did not continue with his explanation, which irritated Hermione, but there was no pushing him. She pulled out some coins instead. For such an intricately carved item, its price of seven galleons was surprisingly cheap. She supposed though, that Olivander did not have too many buyers for this kind of product.

Hermione did not need the cane immediately. So she shrunk it and stuck it in her little bag. As beautiful as the carvings were, they would hardly be useful in her disguise as a normal unobtrusive muggle. When it was gone, she somehow felt bereft without it, and the shivering had returned. Strangely, it had mostly disappeared along while the cane was in her hand.

As per usual for when Hermione had finished her morning activities, she walked to the Leaky Cauldron. First she bought a sandwich to keep her strength up after not having eaten for an entire day. However, she did not immediately go to the orphanage after lunch. Instead, she made a pit stop at the apothecary.

The little shop was largely empty when she walked through the door. The man at the front desk had a hooked nose and greasy hair that was reminiscent of Severus Snape. Ignoring the rows of ingredients, and the stacks of spare potions, Hermione went right to him.

"How can I help you?" he asked, though the look on his face made it appear as though he would rather not be helping her at all. Perhaps he was more like Snape than she realized. From out of her little bag (she had to fish for it manually being that she did not know the precise name of the potions) Hermione got out the bottle that the doctor had given her a few days ago. She set it on the desk.

"Could you tell me what potion is in there?" she asked, in what she hoped was a polite tone. Though, his reminding her of Snape who was the killer of Dumbledore, did not do a great deal to garner politeness from her.

The man picked the bottle up with his thumb and forefinger. He spun it around, and put it up to the light. It was a clear bottle.

"Where did you get this?" he asked.

"My healer gave it to me." Hermione answered.

The man raised his eyebrows "And you did not think to ask him?"

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him, liking this man less and less as the minutes passed "I did. He decided I did not have to know what was in it. I disagree, it is ridiculous to have to owl him for a refill when I could possibly brew it myself."

He sighed "Well despite whatever you may think, I cannot tell you what is in it either."

"What? Why? You cannot even tell me what it's _called_?" Hermione demanded, feeling rather outraged.

"Policy." The man answered simply, handing it back. Hermione grabbed it from his grip. He did not seem offended

"What sort of ridiculous policy-"

"I can tell from the color and consistency that it is a strong pain medication. I assume, that you must have some sort of disability if you're being given that. So it works fine for you, the medication goes right to your head or limb or wherever you're feeling the pain. However, other people who lack disability may abuse it. If you are able to look up the name and make it yourself…."

Hermione stared at him for a moment, silent. "You mean….you think I may be a drug dealer?"

The man held up his hands "Not me. If a healer does not give his patient the name of the potion, the apothecaries are not allowed to release it either. That is the rule."

"That's a bloody stupid rule." Hermione said, dropping the politeness altogether. The man shrugged.

"Don't blame the messenger."

Hermione found herself very much blaming the messenger and she left in a huff. She then went scouring flourish and bolts looking for medical tombs and the like, but as in many subjects it seemed, the store was severely lacking.

The two avenues Hermione had thought would work had crumbled, so she had one option left: Knockturn Alley. It was a place that she had not ventured since her tryst as Bellatrix. As she walked down the narrow little cobble ways, she drew her hood over her head. Though it was only late in the afternoon, it seemed that the sun had sunken lower than it would normally have. She did not look up. She did not look anyone in the eye.

Hermione hurried along, looking for all the world that she was indeed up to something less than wholesome. She glanced at store fronts until she finally saw something resembling a book shop.

There was no one in there when she entered, not even an owner or manager. Free from inquiring eyes, Hermione removed her hood, and started skimming the bindings. She supposed that even a shop like this must have organization of some sort.

Many of the tombs were in other languages that Hermione did not recognize, but she managed to glean from the few English ones that she was in the Spellwork section, not the potion section. It took a while to get to where she needed to be and before she finally made it there, she had already found herself in an innocent enough looking History section, a nefarious Pain Inducing Charms section, and a very thin Time Travel section. She did flip through the books there, but the few in English were more theory than application and despite their location they did not have anything more useful than the books she already possessed to tell her.

When she finally did reach the Potions section, it took her a while to find a tomb on pain prevention rather than inducing. It was not too big, but she would have to shrink it in order to carry it around.

Now when she came to the front of the shop, there was a person there ready to take her money. She was an elderly woman with long, frail grey hair. She peered at Hermione gravely.

"Enjoy." She said as she accepted her 10 sickles. As Hermione was shrinking the book and putting it away, the old woman revealing a mouth lacking in any teeth.

Hermione turned away, opened the door, pulled her hood over her face, and walked out of Knockturn Alley as fast as her limp would allow. In her haste she bumped into someone. Despite her expediency and her location, she turned around to apologize, but there was no one there. She shivered and walked on.

_************LeftForDead************_

Hermione apparated to a nice little alley way near the orphanage, but mostly hidden from muggle eyes. She confidently strode out of the alley when she had removed her robes (which was far less suspicious looking than first popping one's head out and checking to make sure no one is there). Hermione was quicker now and far less tired without having to drag her leg everywhere.

It had become night, as her potion errand had taken quite a few hours. Watching Riddle's orphanage was a part of her day. It was the reason she was here and it could not be skipped simply because there was no more sun.

She nodded politely as a passing group of Canadian soldiers as they crossed each other's pathways under the lamplight. They grinned back at her. Theirs were not leery grins, but merely the desperate smiles of young men who did not think they had their whole lives before them, and had nothing to lose. She recognized them all too well. Harry had been living with death for too long to smile that way, but Ron? The twins? Dean Thomas? Neville? Seamus Finnigan? The list went on. Even Draco had given her that look a few times….in his last days.

Hermione headed towards her bench (skipping the newspaper entirely, as she could hardly read at night). She did not manage to make it there, however. Sirens started to go off and people were running every which way. An Air raid had commenced.

A loud voice sounded in the air "….your nearest shelter, please proceed to your nearest shelter. This is not a drill. Repeat: This is not a drill…."

The group of Canadian soldiers was now ushering people to the nearest shelter….the orphanage. Hermione tried to run off in the other direction. One soldier politely, but firmly grabbed her arm.

"Miss, for your own safety, please proceed into that building. There is room enough for at least a hundred people." he pointed to the orphanage with his free hand.

She momentarily considered confunding him, but that may put the other people in danger if a confused soldier was directing them to the wrong place. So she nodded, and headed off in that direction. Once out of his line of sight, she planned to apparate. It seemed that that was not to be either. Hermione was being funneled into the building with several muggles. There were too many people with too many eyes.

So Hermione found herself in the basement. Knowing who else was surely in that basement (someone Hermione did not particularly to draw attention from) she carefully curtained her face with her hair and she had her arms crossed over her chest. It was fairly large, dank, and smelling of mildew. And it was mostly empty of junk, which Hermione figured was done far ahead of time to prepare for this situation. The walls had water stains on them which was probably the cause of the mildew smell. Before the door was finally shut, she was crowded in with about forty people. A single light illuminated them and a radio with static playing from it sat in the corner.

Riddle, being fairly tall for his age was easy to spot. He had a look of absolute disgust on his face, perhaps from being surrounded by so many muggles? Hermione noted with only slight amusement that his face was not without its acne spots, nor had he grown into his nose. Sure, his high cheekbones gave him a regal look, but they had to compete with the spots on his forehead and chin.

He did not look at her, he did not look at any of them. Rather, he seemed to be trying to look right through them, as if they were not worth his effort. His arrogance did not match his outward appearance. Riddle wore worn plaid pajamas(They looked that way anyway. It was hard to tell in the dim light), not any better off than the suit she had seen him in. He probably would not be caught dead in either outfit at Hogwarts.

With a hundred people (half of them) crowded into an old basement on a summer night, it was all rather uncomfortable, hot, and smelly. At least, Hermione imagined that it was hot. She herself was rubbing her half bare arms. There was a little room to sit, and some people did so as their legs were shaking so badly that it was hard for them to stand. Most people however, stood frozen in their spots, unable or unwilling to rest their legs.

Hermione's wand, as usual, was tucked into her skirt and partially concealed with a charm. She felt her side a few times to make sure it was indeed there.

Riddle crossed his arms over his chest and scowled. The other children, scattered about the basement, hiding in corners and crevices whimpering as adults tried to comfort them, seemed to know to keep their distance.

The lights flickered, people became silent. The radio, seemingly broken as it blared static, and the whimpering of children were the only noises. No one wanted to talk. They were all listening for bombs.

Hermione had a dark thought in that basement: Her simply being there, it changed the timeline. That was impossible to avoid.

This orphanage had not been hit the first time around. If it had, she probably would not be here at the moment (she looked over at Riddle, who appeared indifferent to the whole mess). What if Hermione's mere presence there had set off a chain of events that caused the orphanage to become a target? (Sure Riddle was indifferent, he probably thought his magic would save him. He was not as vulnerable as vile muggles. Though as Hermione well knew, there were things that even magic could not cure)

"Did you hear that?" Someone whispered.

"Did that feel like a bomb to you?"

People were shushed. Hermione glanced over at Riddle and saw a flicker of fear cross his -only slightly- awkward features. It died just as fast as it had appeared.

Perhaps this was the very moment that he started to think about immortality. It had not escaped Hermione's attention that this would be the year that he would open the Chamber of Secrets. She was not sure what her role would be, or that she would do anything at all other than avoid the Basilisk. Like most issues concerning Riddle, she had simply not wanted to think about it.

But this would be the year he would discover his legacy….and maybe start thinking of his own.

If he died now, if this orphanage was hit, none of that would ever be a problem. There _would_ be consequences (nothing comes free): She would perish (no, that did not matter. She had once gladly knocked on death's door), and so would the other children, and all of the people down in this basement. This was an air raid shelter, sure, but it was a make-shift one. It would not hold, if a bomb was dropped on it. They had all gathered here simply to pray together that nothing would-

"False alarm!" a static sounding voice announced over the apparently working radio "False alarm! You may proceed in your nightly activities….False alarm!"

A collective sigh of relief shook through the people in the basement.

Hermione dashed up the stairs to the surface. As soon as it seemed safe to, she spun on her heel and apparated away. In the heat of the moment, before she let herself be pulled into the tube, it appeared as if someone, face blurred was chasing her…reaching out to grab her….but she was soon safely in her tent.

_************LeftForDead************_

Tom Riddle heard the loud crack of an apparition and recognized it as such. He had been hearing it for the last few days or so, coming from somewhere near by. It was easy to pick out over the usual mundane muggle noises of people and traffic. The muggles jumped and blamed it on cars or some such nonsense.

Riddle knew, though. And he was very curious about it indeed.

* * *

In her tent, Hermione mulled briefly over the figure she might have seen. It could have been a muggle that she had missed. It could have been a wizard, trying to warn her against apparating in such a crowded a place as muggle London.

It could have been her imagination. It probably was her imagination. After all, she had been the first person out of that basement and the other muggles had still been hiding elsewhere.

A small part of her worried that it might have been Riddle, recognizing her for what she was, but that too seemed unlikely. How could he have escaped from the matron's notice? Why would he have had any reason to suspect her of being different from any other muggle?

The fact remained that he did not have any, and Hermione was probably just over reacting. Or having hallucinations, or….

Hermione rubbed her arms, trying to warm them, and breathed into her hands. It did no good. Out from her little bag, she took three of her winter sweaters, a pair of warm pajama bottoms, and some fuzzy socks. She also made a fire and set a warming charm about her. All bundled up, she felt better, but not great by any means. She could still see her breath.

The funny (and yet sad) thing about all of this was that if the theoretical books were right, then this was all in her head. She had memories about a cold, dead place, which was then reflected in the world around her. If she forgot it all…if she had amnesia or someone cast a spell on her….she would be warm.

That could never happen of course, she could never let herself forget it all. How would that be a way to honor the cause she had abandoned? Forgetting it all? That was the coward's way out sure, but it did not appeal to her. Maybe when it all got to be too much…..but not now.

Curiosity, and perhaps avoidance of the question at hand, prompted Hermione to remove her cane from her bag. Immediately, she felt a few degrees warmer. She tried to examine the carvings as Olivander had suggested, but she was soon feeling the effects of too many nights without sleep. And the warmth felt so nice...

Hermione drifted off, not on her bed, but in a chair. Her head was leaning toward the side, her hands holding the cane on her legs.

_She holds the locket in her hand, beside the ring. Under her arm is the diary. In her other hand is the cup. On her head is the diadem. Nagini curles around her leg. Out of the corner of her eye she watches as Harry meets death. She realizes, now, why he has to die, though it escaped her before. He will come back, she knows._

_And suddenly, the locket is in two. The ring has become powerless. The tooth of a basilisk impales the diary. The diadem is ash. Nagini lies dead and headless at her feet._

_Harry is pale, motionless. His eyes are closed. He has crumpled to the forest ground._

_On some level, she knows he will awake soon and kill the Dark Lord. She knows she should be happy._

_And yet she cannot._

_This is all for nothing, it does not matter. One item is missing. Or maybe many. Maybe a hundred. How could they have dared to put limits on the lengths someone will go to achieve immortality? How silly of them….how naïve._

_Harry is awakening. She longs to put her hands over his nose and mouth…to save him from this feeling of absolute pointlessness….._

_"Hermione." she looks up at the sound of someone's voice…but hears nothing._

_"Hermione, it is time to awaken….." No one. There is no one there. And what is this about waking up? She does not sleep, she mourns._

_"You are vulnerable in this state Hermione….come back."_

_She almost feels as if she is apparating sidelong, as if something is tugging at her in the most uncomfortable fashion. She does not realize that her eyes are closed…._

Hermione opened her eyes blearily. She could not have been asleep for very long, but her neck ached from the position she had been in. She shivered and noticed that her hands were empty

When she first saw him, she rubbed her eyes. It must have been a slant of the light….a remnant of the dream….He was still there, though when she opened her eyes. And he was there when she closed and opened them again….over and over.

Very much looking as though he should be dead, and yet standing with ease and even an arrogant smile, was Draco Malfoy.

Hermione screamed.

* * *

**Author's note**: The experiment with the rabbit is something I actually read about, but I could not find much information on it (like if it actually ever happened). So even if it is terribly inaccurate, or a complete fake, it still makes the point about Molly.

Also, Hermione still hates Snape because Harry would never have had the opportunity to tell her exactly what he saw in the pensieve. In her sleep, she does realize that Harry was a Horcrux though, because she is smart like that and can connect the dots pretty well.


End file.
